Wicked Deception (Regency Sinners 4)

by Carole Mortimer

  How many times had Maxim imagined just this as he lay rotting in that French prison, holding on to his sanity by a thin thread? Only the promise of Heather waiting for him kept him grounded and willing to continue fighting his torturers. To live, for her.

  Only to return to find she had married his father in his absence.

  Heather released Maxim’s cock to glance up at him as he gave a pained groan. “Did I hurt you?” She had not thought she had, but his groan had not been one of pleasure.

  “No.” He looked at her between narrowed lids. His hands came up to rest either side of her head as he thrust his weeping cock toward her.

  Heather eyed him uncertainly. Maxim had always been demanding in their lovemaking, but she had never sensed the anger she could now see in his expression and hear in his voice.

  “Open your mouth and keep sucking me until I come,” he rasped.

  He wasted no time waiting for her answer. He pushed his cock past her slightly parted lips, causing Heather to reach up to grasp Maxim’s hips as he immediately began to thrust in earnest.

  She more than sensed the anger inside him now, could feel it in the ever-increasing wildness of his thrusts and the erratic sounds of his breathing. He was close to his release, to using her as if she were nothing more than a hot mouth in which he might thrust his cock and then empty his balls. To treating her as that nameless, faceless whore servicing his needs.

  Heather wrenched her head free of his hands, releasing Maxim’s cock with a loud pop as she sat back on her heels. She knew she was right in her conclusion when she looked up and saw the glassy sheen to his eyes and the lack of recognition for her in the blankness of that gaze.

  “Finish it, damn you.” His voice was guttural.

  “No.” She shook her head as she rose to her feet on legs that shook at the knees.

  “Then I shall do it.” His fingers returned to curl tightly about his cock. He braced his legs and began to savagely pump that engorged shaft. “And you shall watch.”

  “You are out of control,” Heather accused breathlessly, barely recognizing Maxim in this snarling stranger. At the same time, she was unable to look away from the rapid pumping of his hand and the increased release of precum spilling onto the bulbous top and over his fingers.

  “I was never in control where you were concerned,” he rasped, color high on his cheeks as his other hand moved to squeeze his balls while he continued those fierce strokes. “It was always you who controlled me. Always you, damn it.” He gave a loud groan as his shaft began to jerk and pulse within his grasp, and cum shot in a thick and steady stream from the slit that gaped open at the tip of his cock.

  Heather was still standing close enough that it splattered over the skirt of her gown, allowing her to feel the heat of his release through the silk material. The wildness of Maxim’s gaze remained fixed on the evidence of cum on her as he continued to pump long after that release had ended.

  Finally, he stopped to stumble backward and lean back against the window frame, his chest rapidly rising and falling beneath his jacket and waistcoat, his gaze downcast and no longer meeting hers.

  Heather had no idea what to say or do. Their lovemaking had always been wild but satisfying in the past, and her response to him during the early hours of this morning had shown that desire was still as strong. On her part, at least. But she had never seen Maxim so far gone in his passion. So out of control.

  An angry passion which seemed to be born of hate.

  Toward her.

  Maxim might still desire her, but his behavior now had shown that he also harbored a fierceness of anger toward her for being the woman who had forced him to feel that emotion.

  Heather had been angry with Maxim for years. Since he’d abandoned her so callously, in fact. But to now realize the emotion was returned, that it surged even deeper than merely anger inside Maxim, bordering on hate, caused a numbness, an emptiness inside her Heather knew could never be filled.

  No, not complete emptiness, she accepted as she acknowledged the tightness in her chest exactly where her heart resided. She blinked back tears as the last little piece of hope she’d had that Maxim might have had good reason for having abandoned her six years ago finally died.

  There was nothing between them now but the remnants of their long-dead desire for each other.

  And anger. Maxim’s as well as her own.

  Her spine straightened. “In the circumstances, it would be better for all concerned if you departed Cornwall first thing in the morning.” She turned on her heel with a swish of her soiled skirt and departed the dining room, the heat of her tears tracking down her cheeks.

  Maxim was so full of self-disgust, he barely registered Heather leaving. There was certainly nothing he could say in his defense that could ever excuse his behavior.

  He had never behaved in such a barbaric manner before tonight.

  Never been so consumed with anger as well as desire that he had treated a woman with so much contempt and disrespect.

  Had treated Heather so contemptuously and disrespectfully.

  The one woman he never wished to hurt but seemed to do so constantly.

  This time deliberately.

  Because here he stood, the respected and occasionally feared Lord Maximillian Smythe, the Earl of Carlton, friend of dukes and earls and the Prince Regent, with his rapidly softening cock hanging out of his trousers and his clothing and shoes soiled with his own cum.

  It was behavior in himself Maxim barely recognized.

  Did not want to recognize.

  But had no choice but to do so.

  What did he do now, was the question.

  Did he leave Cornwall, as Heather wished him to do?

  Or did he stay and continue on his mission to prove or disprove her guilty of treason?

  Chapter 6

  “It has been two days since your arrival, Maxim. Are you just going to continue sitting here in my library, drinking my best brandy and wallowing, or are you going to tell me what the reason is for your current misery?”

  Maxim spared his host a baleful glare as the other man made himself comfortable in the chair opposite. Lord Jericho Black, the Marquis of Wessex, heir to his father, the Duke of Pomeroy, and one of Maxim’s closest friends amongst The Sinners. Jericho also had the dubious honor of living the closest to Maxim’s estate in Cornwall, Wessex spending the summer months at one of his family estates in Devon.

  Jericho quirked one dark eyebrow. “Is the dowager guilty, then?” It was difficult to know whether he looked pleased or disappointed if that should be the case. His expression, if it were possible, appeared to be a mixture of the two.

  Maxim breathed out a deep sigh. “I have no idea.”

  The other man looked confused. “Then why have you, quite literally, been sitting in my library stinking drunk these past two days and nights?”

  Maxim winced, having neither washed himself nor changed his clothes since his arrival two days ago. The former was pure laziness on his part, the latter because he had left Treganon House in such a hurry, he had not bothered to pack any fresh clothing to bring with him.

  “I treated her like a common whore,” he muttered self-disgustedly.

  Jericho’s brows rose even higher. “Who?”

  “Heather.”

  The other man eyed him guardedly. “The dowager?”

  “Damn it, will you cease calling her that!” Maxim roused himself to sit up in the chair where he had previously been slumped. “She is ten years younger than we are and barely old enough to be a wife and mother, let alone a dowager.”

  The marquis gave an acknowledging nod of his head. “She is the one you treated like a whore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want her so fucking badly, my teeth ache with the wanting!”

  “And you thought treating her like a whore would succeed in seducing her into returning that desire?”

  Maxim ran a hand over his eyes and down to his st
ubbled jaw. “I was angry.” It was the only explanation he needed to make, as all The Sinners were aware he was slow to temper but vicious once that temper was aroused.

  “What did you do?”

  Maxim felt the hot tide of color in his cheeks at the memory of what he had done to Heather. It was so shameful, so disgusting, he could barely form the words. “I masturbated over her.”

  Jericho drew his breath in sharply but said nothing. All The Sinners were aware of what Maxim had suffered in that French prison. They had seen the old scars and the many fresh cuts and bruises when they rescued him. As they also knew of the darkness that now resided inside him.

  “Under what circumstances?” Wessex finally prompted.

  He gave a bitter smile. “Does it matter?”

  “If you did it as a way of debasing her, then yes. But if you did it under intimate circumstances, perhaps not.”

  Maxim recalled the pleasure of having Heather’s mouth on him, and then the anger that had risen like a dark tide as he also remembered she had been the wife of his own father for five years.

  He studied Wessex. “How could that possibly ever be classed as an intimacy?”

  “I believe some women…enjoy having their lover’s spunk on their body, and some gentlemen enjoy licking it off.”

  “Really?” Maxim’s brows rose as he wondered what sort of women Wessex associated with. Jericho was not one for confiding either his sexual proclivities or conquests. “Is that not rather like a dog pissing over its owner as a mark of possession?”

  “Is that not what you were doing?” Jericho countered with another question of his own.

  He gave an almost dazed shake of his head. “I was too aroused to know what I was doing.”

  His friend gave him a searching glance. “What did Heather do after you had come on her?”

  Maxim’s mouth twisted. “She advised me to leave Cornwall as soon as possible.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And since when have you called her Heather in that familiar fashion?”

  “I cannot call her the dowager, and now I must not call her Heather either?” Jericho drawled.

  Maxim’s suspicion prevented him from answering. Admittedly it was a long journey between Treganon House and Wessex Manor, but that did not mean the two lovers could not have met at some convenient place between those two properties—

  What the hell was he doing? Jericho was one of his closest friends, had been so for many years. The marquis knew of Maxim’s past association with Heather, and the friendship between the two men meant Jericho would not have become the lover Heather spoke of.

  “I have known your father since you and I were at school together,” Wessex reminded him. “James and Heather are also my neighbors,” he added gently, as if guessing some of Maxim’s thoughts. “Not close, obviously, but close enough we occasionally socialized in each other’s homes during the winter months when James was still alive.”

  “I apologize.” Maxim was heartily ashamed of himself for having even the slightest doubt as to the extent of Jericho’s friendship with Heather. “If it is any consolation, I am lower than the lowest worm where Heather is concerned.”

  “You still love her.” It was a statement not a question.

  Maxim straightened. “I have never once said that I love her.”

  “Not in so many words, no…”

  “I have long since buried whatever it was I once felt for Heather,” he insisted. “She is my father’s widow and the mother of my half brother, and that is all she is.” Even as he said the dismissive words, Maxim knew he was lying, to himself as much as anyone else. Seeing Heather, being with her again, had aroused all the desire he had once felt for her. Had never stopped feeling for her.

  “Then as she is your father’s widow and the mother of your brother, you must go back to Treganon House,” Jericho advised firmly. “To beg on your knees for her forgiveness, if necessary.”

  Maxim stiffened. “I will never go down on my knees to any man or woman.” His torturers had tried to compel that subjugation many times and never succeeded in bringing him to his knees.

  “Maxim, you have to let the past go,” Jericho advised softly. “Besides,” he added teasingly. “How else are you going to ask a woman to marry you other than on your knees?”

  “I shall never marry,” he stated firmly.

  The other man’s brows rose. “Why on earth not?”

  His mouth thinned. “I am scarred on the inside as much as on the outside. I have nightmares no woman should ever have to witness or suffer through. Nor do I need to marry,” he added decisively, “when I have Ralph as my heir.”

  “There is no hope that you and Heather might resolve your differences?”

  Maxim gave a pained frown. “She despises me as much as I despise myself.”

  “I am sure that is not true.”

  “Oh, I assure you it is.”

  Jericho exhaled heavily. “Do you want me to go to Cornwall in your stead to prove her innocence or guilt?”

  Did he? Was Maxim going to continue sitting here feeling sorry for himself, behaving the coward, drunk and unkempt, while Jericho took his place?

  He gave a shake of his head. “You have your own lady to investigate.”

  Wessex drew in a hissing breath. “And I would rather be thrown into a pit of venomous snakes than do so.”

  Maxim’s eyes widened at the fierceness of his friend’s tone. “Who is she?”

  A nerve pulsed in Jericho’s jaw. “My father’s ward.”

  Maxim believed less and less that the names each of The Sinners had been given were randomly chosen. Stonewell’s certainly had not been, nor his own. Wolf, perhaps, but Dante and Devil both had a previous connection to their lady of choice. So, it seemed, did Jericho.

  Lady Jocelyn Forbes might officially be the ward of the Duke of Pomeroy, but as that gentleman’s eccentricity verged on insanity, Jericho had taken over that young lady’s guardianship three years ago, when she attained the age of seventeen and attended her first Season. His father, the eccentric duke, preferred to live up in the wilds of Scotland, shooting and hunting for most of the year.

  “Where is she?” Maxim had not been aware of a female presence in the house since his arrival two days ago.

  “I am expecting Jocey to return any day now from a visit to her aunt in France. Which, it seems, is when my investigation will necessarily begin,” Jericho revealed flatly.

  Maxim grimaced. “Perhaps I will find that Heather is the guilty one in the meantime and so save you the trouble.”

  The other man sighed. “For your sake, I hope not.”

  Maxim nodded. “Do you have some clothes I might borrow once I have slept off the effects of this brandy and washed and shaved?” Jericho was right, Maxim must go back to Treganon House, he accepted heavily. Not only because he had a mission to complete, but because he owed Heather an apology.

  But not on his knees.

  Never, ever that.

  “Oh.” Heather came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of the blue salon the moment she became aware of Maxim standing beside the unlit fireplace.

  She’d had no idea what to expect when she came downstairs the morning following that devastating scene in the dining room. To know whether Maxim had departed, as she suggested he should, or stayed for reasons of his own that superseded that request. Her maid had not known the answer to that question either when she brought Heather’s breakfast tray up to her bedchamber that morning.

  Heather had been emotionally exhausted by the time she reached her bedchamber following that disturbing scene with Maxim. But even so, the tears had continued to fall for some time after Heather had removed her soiled gown and crushed it into a ball to push it to the back of her wardrobe, never wishing to see or wear it ever again.

  Sleep had also eluded her these past three nights as thoughts of Maxim, of that raw and angry passion he had displayed, refused to be banished but instead played over and over again in her tormented mind. His behavio
r had shown that the veneer of cool sophistication he displayed outwardly these days was nothing more than that. A veneer. That beneath that coolness was a man of even deeper and darker passions than there had been six years ago.

  Spending time with Ralph these past three days had helped to ease Heather’s bruised emotions, and Maxim’s absence had also given her time to see that the illegal goods stored at Wheal Anne were passed on to the buyers without fear of Maxim detecting the subterfuge. Although the presence still of his valet promised that Maxim would be returning sometime.

  That time appeared to be this afternoon.

  Heather schooled her features into an expression of cool composure as she stepped fully into the room. “I am expecting two ladies for afternoon tea,” she announced without greeting.

  Maxim’s mouth twisted. “Is that your polite way of saying you would prefer if I did not remain in here during their visit?”

  Wherever Maxim had been since he left here so abruptly, he did not look as if it had been a restful time. His face was pale, and his eyes were slightly sunken with dark bruises beneath them, which, taking in the rest of his appearance, was caused by a lack of sleep. He was clean-shaven, his superfine perfectly tailored, but not necessarily for him. The shoulders appeared a little strained and the body of the jacket was perhaps a little too long.

  “Not at all,” she answered him dismissively. “It is only the vicar’s and the doctor’s wives. I doubt they are sophisticated enough for your tastes.”

  Maxim appreciated that Heather had not added that the time for politeness between them had long since passed, which she had every right to do.

  His chest ached at how beautiful she looked in a day gown of pale blue. She was a little pale, perhaps, but he doubted Heather had been able to forget—or forgive—his shocking behavior toward her either.

  Maxim met her gaze unflinchingly, something he had been unable to do after showing her such disrespect. “I wish to apologize to you for my reprehensible behavior when last we were together. I… What I did was truly disgusting. Forgive me, Heather.”

  She continued to stare at him for several long minutes.